


Strip Away the Layers and Reveal Your Soul

by tacotheshark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gangbang, M/M, Omega Verse, enjolras is a charming young man capable of being terrible, gangbangs do wonders for a budding relationship, mainly courfeyrac/marius, marius is a very needy omega, potential dub-con due to nature of omegaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacotheshark/pseuds/tacotheshark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Kink Meme:</p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>So: Marius goes into heat shortly after meeting the rest of the Amis and having the argument in the Musain (or even in the middle of it, if you want). He's usually able to cope by himself, but then usually he hasn't just met/isn't surrounded by a bunch of young, attractive alphas. Cue Courfeyrac persuading the Amis to, ah, help Marius.</p>
</blockquote><br/>In which Marius has a need, Courfeyrac has a plan, and les Amis have an interesting night.
            </blockquote>





	Strip Away the Layers and Reveal Your Soul

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt Link](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13024.html?thread=6390496#t6390496)  
>  This is mainly Marius/Courfeyrac, all the other Marius pairings take a very slight backseat to that, and the non-Marius pairings are like, in the trunk, but there.  
> Title is from Matisyahu's "King Without A Crown".

Marius knows the feeling well and yet still it comes as a shock, when he notices how stiflingly, physically _hot_ he’s become in the passion of arguing, of politics, of all those matters he comes to forget in that moment of clear hyperawareness. His voice has given out, startled and weak, and each pair of eyes in the café—each belonging to one of these men, these “Friends of the ABC” Courfeyrac has brought him to, these men whose names Marius barely knows and whose bodies now beckon him ceaselessly—is fixed pointedly on him, some with concern, some with surprise, some with unabated arousal. His eyes dart around the room, searching for some sort of escape, some sort of salvation.

Yes, he knows the feeling all too well—the weak knees, the dry mouth, the damp everything else from the hair that begins to cling to his forehead with sweat to the clothing that begins to cling between his thighs with something else entirely. He gulps and suddenly his mouth is flooded with saliva. Warmth fills his body gradually, filtering through him like hot wax dripping from a candle. Yet, he feels somehow much more slippery, much more hot and elusive, than wax.

The scent of his own hormones fills his nostrils and he is torn between inhaling and cringing; he can only imagine what he must smell like to the others. And close to all he can think is _oh God, this is mortifying,_ with barely a thought to spare for _oh God, what can I do,_ when a voice speaks up behind him, startling Marius in the painfully silent room—“Marius?”—and _thank God,_ he thinks, it’s Courfeyrac.

“Courfeyrac”—Marius turns slowly, distress wrought across his flushed face. His voice is soft, but at the same time heavy, as if he has to strain to hold it in place. He coughs lightly before continuing—“May I speak with you in private?”

Courfeyrac nods, taking Marius by the shoulder. “Of course,” he says, as he leads Marius away, onto the landing of the stairway just beyond the view of any of the others, trying hard to keep Marius upright and from leaning too deeply into his wholly innocent touch.

Without words, Marius waits, mouth dry once again, listening for the café’s usual clamor which is just starting to resume. He breathes deeply and he’s overly aware of how his chest is expanding, just like he finds it impossible not to notice every other little thing his body is doing. Every movement, every slow drawing breath and every twitch of muscle, feels like a thousand. Courfeyrac’s hand over his jacket, not close enough, feels like the touch of an angel or a devil or perhaps, Marius thinks and is automatically sure of, a little of both in the same. He aches to touch Courfeyrac’s skin with his own and yet, he holds back.

“You’ve gone into heat.” It’s a statement, from Courfeyrac, simple and immediately verifiable as any other. Courfeyrac’s voice is firm, analytical almost; Marius nods despondently and gulps.

“I have.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, weighing his options when he knows his body will allow him only one. “Oh my God,” he chokes, “they’re all alphas, aren’t they? I can tell.” The pheromones Marius can still sense don’t permeate so far as to reach the stairway, but the feeling is fresh in his mind, dancing over his skin, drawing out little reactions, more and more, by the minute.

“Most, yeah,” Courfeyrac says, rubbing Marius’ shoulder gently. At almost any other time Marius would have shrugged him away chuckling; now he only parts his lips and leans into the almost-touch, arousal flaring inside him at the suffocating feeling of Courfeyrac’s—an alpha’s—mere presence. “Marius, I’m truly, deeply sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

Marius shakes his head, sighing around the lump in his throat. If Courfeyrac is taller than him it isn’t by much, and Courfeyrac to Marius has become anything but threatening—Courfeyrac is a dear friend and rather than making Marius less nervous this only makes him more desperate. “No, it’s alright, really. I just… Oh God, Courfeyrac, I need help. _Please._ ” Marius can feel Courfeyrac’s eyes on his body and he welcomes them. His shirt is beginning to stick to his chest; he can feel the sweat beading down his neck, collecting near his collar. He is painfully aware of his erection and though it would pain him to look, the glint in Courfeyrac’s eyes tells him it’s surely embarrassing.

“What is it, then, you want me to take you home? Like your last heat? I can surely do that.” It’s amazing, Marius thinks, that friendly concern and unabashed lust can mingle so easily in a man’s eyes.

He nods, whispering a soft, eager affirmative as Courfeyrac’s hands settle, much-needed, on his hips. He leans in, swaying almost subconsciously, moving his lips close to Courfeyrac’s and drinking in the feeling of his friend’s breath like it’s a fine wine, yet before he and Courfeyrac can come together fully he’s caught by a stronger want, a remnant of an idea that had promised to leave him alone with the promise of Courfeyrac, one that pained him before and looms over him now, living somewhere up above at the same time as somewhere inside the arousal flaring in his gut. Courfeyrac notices his halt, stopping just millimeters from his lips, gazing at him with eyes wide in a silent, _what is wrong?_ Marius blinks slowly, and he wonders, _oh, how to say it?_ “I need more.”

“More than me?”

Marius purses his lips nervously and his cheeks flare. “Yes.” His eyes meet Courfeyrac’s then, and their gazes are locked; he glances nervously at the entrance to the café’s back room, licking his lips without noticing, and Courfeyrac’s eyes follow. His hands are still rested comfortably on Marius’ hips, and he grips Marius just a bit tighter as he, now, has to draw in a slow breath.

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” When he locks eyes with Marius again a radiant giddiness shines through the concern in his face, and at the same time that palpable concern shines through his wholly indecent excitement. Marius, absorbed in the feeling in his body and the emotion of his friend, takes a moment to realize he hasn’t spoken. “…Marius?”

“Yes,” he says, again, “I… I think so.” Marius has never disliked the sound of his own voice more. He tries to be firm but to his own ears he sounds only awkward.  
Yet, Courfeyrac’s hands are sliding up to his waist, and with the feeling of Courfeyrac’s palms pressing through his jacket and shirts at his skin, of Courfeyrac’s fingers holding him fast, moving along his back gently, Marius can forget all else. “Marius, listen,” Courfeyrac says, and as he searches Marius’ face it feels somewhat intrusive but now that is all Marius can hope for. “I will give you anything you need. You have to tell me though, I won’t laugh, I promise, don’t think these things of me Marius, I am your friend. And I don’t want to put you in a situation you’re not comfortable with, I promise you that as well.”

“Your laughter,” Marius says, “trust me, is the least of my worries.” He feels like a child, red and stammering in the face of his most basic physical needs. As he speaks Courfeyrac moves in again, until his breath is just almost ghosting over Marius’ own mouth; Courfeyrac’s massages Marius’ waist, his hands firm, half like he is holding Marius in place and half like he is only hanging on for the ride. “Courfeyrac, I… what I want…what I need rather…Courfeyrac, I’m just going to say it, I’m going to come out and say it because surely I’m already in a horribly uncouth position, absolutely miserable, look at me, oh…what I want, so long as you’ll lead me to have it and my friend I beg you, what I truly need and look at me, no, don’t, I’m a mess…what you’ll see I am absolutely desperate for… oh, Courfeyrac, if you’ll have it I want—I _need_ —I need to have every man in that room, your friends. I need to be had by every man in that room—oh, Courfeyrac, do you will it?”

Courfeyrac’s easy breathing stills and Marius winces; as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows they sound ridiculous. They’re still painful, ringing in his ears, and he half expects Courfeyrac to ravish him, and half to push him away. Instead Courfeyrac simply mutters, “Oh God, Marius, you are a gift from the heavens,” his voice wrought with a shocked reverence as he pulls Marius closer, pressing a kiss to Marius’ forehead rather than his mouth like Marius craves, his erection obvious as it presses against Marius’ thigh. Marius, suffocating in Courfeyrac’s embrace and wholly enjoying it, rolls his hips gently; Courfeyrac groans softly into Marius’ hair, sliding his hands up to Marius’ underarms and back down past his waist to his hips again. Marius shivers, craving more of his touch, tipping his head up to press his face into Courfeyrac’s.

Courfeyrac looks numb with happiness, and Marius quivers at the prospect that caused such a thing. “Oh, I knew taking you in would be a good idea,” he teases, speaking into Marius’ temple, “your friendship is nothing compared to this.”

Marius finds himself almost too entranced by the feeling of Courfeyrac’s lips moving hotly against his skin to speak; he manages a soft, choked, “ _Hey._ ”

“Hush now.” Closing his eyes, Marius can feel Courfeyrac’s grin against his head. His eyelashes flutter against Courfeyrac’s cheek, and Courfeyrac kisses his temple softly. Marius is startled when he feels Courfeyrac begin to pull away, but when he opens his eyes the intensity of Courfeyrac’s gaze shocks him and yet, draws him in only closer. “Now, shall I make it so?”

“Would you kiss me?” The words leave Marius’ plump lips easily, and again he regrets them instantaneously. “Before you go?” Yet, his regret seeps into something else entirely when Courfeyrac is blinking reverently and closing the bare centimeters between him; Marius moans a soft, “ _Oh,_ ” as he parts his lips for Courfeyrac, basking in the taste of Courfeyrac like the man is Marius’—a dying man’s—first drink in months. Courfeyrac’s hands move to Marius’ face, cupping his jaw gently on either side, as he slips his tongue into Marius’ mouth and Marius’ own darts out to meet it. He’s dizzy, and stiflingly hot, and he feels like Courfeyrac is holding him up entirely. Courfeyrac’s mouth is like velvet and like silk and like all those fineries Marius can’t quite afford, anymore.

When Courfeyrac pulls away reluctantly, Marius is reeling. “Be good and wait,” Courfeyrac says, “I promise I won’t be long.” He kisses Marius’ mouth once again and Marius scrambles to reciprocate, and then he is gone, walking back to the back room with a bounce in his step. Marius watches the small of his back and the movement of his shoulders as he goes.

Marius sighs, leaning against the wall that separates him from the others. From his place he can hear Courfeyrac shout, “ _Everybody, listen!_ ” And he hears the men in the café quiet down somewhat.

“ _Oh,_ ” Marius says to himself, voice wobbly to his own ears.

“My friends,” Courfeyrac resumes, and Marius strains to hear. “I fear we have a bit of an issue, an emergency if you’ll be so dear as to allow me to use the term. Very small problem, actually, easily taken care of. It would seem, as I’m sure many of you have already noticed, that our dear boy Marius has gone into heat.”

Marius’ cock aches as he listens through the wall, and tentatively he slips a hand down to palm himself through his trousers. He tips his head back against the wall, still standing mostly upright, pulsing lightly in his hand.

“Now, I know from experience that the boy is absolutely _insatiable_ —my friends, do not be jealous! Surely you’ll have your own turn soon enough…”

When Marius sighs he lets out a soft whimper, so embarrassed by that even in just his own presence that he turns his chin into his breast, his face scratching against his jacket, ceasing to listen. If he tries he can still hear Courfeyrac speaking in the next room—speaking of him. Marius slides down the wall gradually, landing on the floor with his legs spread out in front of him, his knees bent, awkward. All his life, he thinks, he’s been paraded around by his grandfather, his relatives, spoken about to others as if he wasn’t even there. It always inspired a soft rage in the younger boy, though he could never say a thing, but now as Courfeyrac does the same, all it makes Marius is _hot._ Hot, and so desperately needy, and he hates to acknowledge it but he doesn’t have the brain power to anyway, as he rubs himself through his trousers more vigorously, spreads his legs further and cants his hips upward, not wanting to touch himself properly just yet. Still he aches for it, his cock pressing up, hot and heavy, into his palm.

It isn’t long before Marius’ mind steers into the memory of his last heat, the first and only he spent with Courfeyrac. Most of it is a blur, now, but there are a few moments he remembers well. He remembers waking up, feeling stifled under a thin sheet, soaking through Courfeyrac’s spare mattress with his sweat and his wetness. He remembers rubbing himself frantically, half awake, before he realized where he was—and, upon realizing, begging Courfeyrac to take him, pleading, “ _Oh Courfeyrac, please won’t you, oh God, oh please monsieur,_ ” as he rocked into his hand under the sheet in the short moment it took for Courfeyrac to get his bearings before crawling onto the mattress and taking Marius into his arms, kissing Marius until he could barely breathe, fucking Marius until he could barely walk—it was Marius’ first heat spent in the presence of another at all, and it was days before he could function properly again. Courfeyrac was perfect for him, Marius thought, still thinks—big, both in stature and between his thighs, passionate and lascivious in the best of ways, lewd and always blunt which was never more appreciated than when Marius was begging to be fucked, and Courfeyrac obliged him more than gladly. He thinks of Courfeyrac, now; of Courfeyrac’s cock, and his mouth waters at the thought; of Courfeyrac fucking him for days into the mattress he still sleeps on; of Courfeyrac spreading his legs for him and breathing onto his neck. He caresses his hole through his trousers and his wetness seeps through to his fingers. It’s pathetic, he thinks, he’s pathetic, but as shame burns in him arousal burns stronger, and so he tips his head back against the wall, sighing through red, bitten lips, slipping his eyes shut as he palms himself, blindly, desperately.

This is how Courfeyrac finds him, not more than fifteen minutes later though to Marius it feels like an eternity. And before Marius can look up Courfeyrac’s hands are on him, Courfeyrac’s lips are on his jaw. Courfeyrac’s arms are wrapping, firm but gentle, around his waist, and it takes all of Marius’ will not to cry out and wrap himself around Courfeyrac completely. Instead he writhes against him, half sprawled across the floor, mouth half open, tangling his fingers in Courfeyrac’s hair just to pull him closer, just to feel the sweat that begins to gather at his scalp. Courfeyrac whispers, lips still pressed against Marius’ slick skin, “Marius—”

“ _Please—_ ”

“Marius, hush, you made a proposal. Don’t you want to follow through with it?” Courfeyrac is cheerful; Marius is languid, racked by short bursts of energy that make his cock twitch.

Marius pants heavily against Courfeyrac’s cheek. “Yes, oh God, I… I’m sorry…” He doesn’t quite know what he’s apologizing for, but it feels necessary.

“’S alright, up you go now.” When Courfeyrac smacks Marius’ thigh it’s meant to be crude, but his hand lingers, moving down Marius’ leg to rub the inside of his knee gently. Smiling with a slight embarrassment Courfeyrac leans down, to press a kiss to the side of Marius’ knee, through his trousers. His eyes travel unsubtly to the space between Marius’ thighs, where his trousers are disheveled, a slight damp spot in a very particular place.

Marius blushes, but doesn’t close his legs. His hole aches, wet and waiting.

“One would think,” Courfeyrac mutters, nose still pressed into Marius’ leg, “that you haven’t had a decent fuck in decades.”

Marius breathes deeply and says nothing.

“Perhaps you haven’t. After all I try not to brag. What do you think Marius, did I satisfy you last time?”

“Oh _God,_ ” Marius groans, “You have no idea.” His cock pulses between his spread thighs, aching for Courfeyrac’s attention.

“Mm,” Courfeyrac sighs, “good.” Through his threadbare clothing Marius can almost feel Courfeyrac’s breath against his skin. “I’d just about hate myself if I couldn’t please you. Tell me, Marius, did I tire you out?”

“I’d like to think it was I who tired you out.” Marius tries to smile but his lips relax around a sigh. “Yes, yes, my God, of course.”

“Well I assure you,” Courfeyrac says, patting Marius’ calf gently, kneeling and taking Marius’ arm to help him up, “After tonight you may just be bedridden for weeks.”

Marius blinks slowly, inhaling sharply and breathing, “Oh, thank God.”

“And thank nature”—Courfeyrac adds, as he leads Marius into the back room once again—“for ensuring a good night for the lot of us.” Courfeyrac’s shark-like grin has Marius reeling on his feet as he struggles to keep his failing composure.

Marius’ arm is hooked with Courfeyrac’s almost innocently, as the two of them pass through the doorway—instantly Marius is assaulted again by the crushing palpability of the pheromones of the half a dozen at the least men in the room, and he groans softly as he inhales through his parted lips.

Courfeyrac stops him, then, just inside the room, just when Courfeyrac’s friends’ eyes all land on him, flushed and disheveled, radiating his own shameful arousal. Courfeyrac’s large hand is on Marius’ chest and, nearly overwhelmed now, Marius’ eyes flicker down to it slowly before traveling back up to Courfeyrac’s eyes. Courfeyrac purses his lips and sighs. “You’re alright, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Marius groans, “God, yes,” and Courfeyrac nods, pats his waist, leaves his hand there and wraps his other arm around Marius’ shoulders. Like that he leads Marius to the center of the room, where the table has been cleared.

In Marius’ ear Courfeyrac mutters, “You can trust my friends.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Marius says, grinning softly and sighing at his own words, as Courfeyrac stops and releases him slowly, allowing him to look around. He moves to stand behind Marius, his hands on either side of Marius’ waist, drumming his fingers gently against Marius’ body.

Enjolras is the first to speak, sat in a corner and looking somewhat tepid. For this, Marius is glad, for Enjolras is the one he knows best, even if that is only because that had argued, which now to Marius doesn’t matter in the least. “Ah, Monsieur… has Courfeyrac… _coerced you…_ in any way?”

Marius chuckles at his own shame. “No, he has not.” His arms are dropped at his sides, elbows brushing against Courfeyrac’s knuckles. Courfeyrac scoffs. “I fear this was all me. I’m sorry, friends, what an impression to make.”

“It’s quite alright,” says the one called Combeferre.

“It’s more than alright,” speaks out Bahorel, who reclines in a wooden chair close to where Marius and Courfeyrac stand, and who is almost definitely the least shy in the room. Marius gulps.

“It’s fairly standard,” Combeferre continues. Joly, at his side, agrees enthusiastically, though the blush coloring his cheeks is unmistakable.

Courfeyrac, warm against Marius’ back, mutters in his ear, “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Good,” Marius says, neck tense as he locks eyes with everyone once: Enjolras, whose stare unsettles him, Bahorel whose gaze worries him, Bossuet who looks interested and Joly who looks anxious but excited in the same, Combeferre and Feuilly who both try to reassure Marius with their eyes, Prouvaire who looks at Marius with concern, and finally Grantaire who sits by a corner opposite Enjolras, with a glass bottle as Marius has picked up is his norm, looking more solemn than anything.

Again Marius gulps, and leans back into Courfeyrac. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

“As you wish,” Courfeyrac says, as he rocks his hips into Marius once, attaching his lips to the nape of Marius’ neck. Marius’ skin prickles under his touch, hair warmed by the wetness of Courfeyrac’s mouth. Marius whines softly and the room stills, thick with pheromones, with heat, with the unmistakable scent of Marius’ heat. If all the attention in the room wasn’t on him before, it certainly is now.

Marius’ thighs come apart just slightly, almost as a reflex, as Courfeyrac nips at his neck and what of his spine he can get to under Marius’ clothing, drawing tiny moans from Marius’ throat which grow more and more frantic and breathless by the moment. Marius’ panting breaths won’t let him close his lips, and Courfeyrac’s roaming hands won’t let his breathing calm.

Still, Courfeyrac mumbles, as he plays with the waist of Marius’ trousers, “Relax, Marius. Won’t you let me take care of you?” The feeling of his breath, hot and heavy on Marius’ neck, simultaneously heavenly and sinful, in addition to his words which elicit a small groan of their own, leaves Marius practically melting into Courfeyrac, losing his balance momentarily before Courfeyrac catches him, pulling Marius into his chest, running his fingers through Marius’ hair and along his jaw. Marius lets his head relax, tipping it back onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder with an awkward, gurgled whine and baring his neck. “There you go,” Courfeyrac murmurs, turning to brush his lips against what of Marius’ neck he can reach as he pulls Marius’ jacket gently off his shoulders. “Hush, I’ve got you.”

Courfeyrac begins to work at Marius’ dress shirt, hooking his chin over Marius’ shoulder, slipping his arms under Marius’ to get to his chest. He undoes Marius’ buttons slowly, turning his mouth into Marius’ neck every other button or so. Marius’ chest flares pink as it’s bared, and so do his cheeks.

Marius tips his head back, and closes his eyes, and as Courfeyrac undresses him he barely pays attention to the sequence, focused on the novelty he finds each time Courfeyrac’s fingers bruysh against him, or a garment falls to the floor to expose new skin.

Marius whines softly when his cock is uncovered, curving up red and flushed as it’s exposed, to the eyes of Courfeyrac’s friends, surely Marius’ own friends now, if anything; he takes notice, also, when Courfeyrac has to peel fabric off his thighs, slightly damp. He can tell they’re glistening, surely. The air is cool against his dripping wetness. He’s bare, soon, completely, and when Courfeyrac slides his hands between Marius’ thighs, their gently massage there coaxes Marius into opening his eyes. 

Where his head was rolling between lying on Courfeyrac’s shoulder and his own chest, neck folding under its weight, his eyes closed, panting lightly and feeling his breath on his own expanding chest, it is now as if Marius’ face has bloomed, eyes opening and lips parting like flower petals, flaring pink, rosy and fresh. He looks around and makes more eye contact than he’d like, and he can feel the pull of his wet, throbbing arousal on the atmosphere of the room.

Courfeyrac’s hands, sliding between Marius’ legs, gently smear the wetness on his thighs. Marius can’t help but spread his legs a little—only a little so as not to lose his balance—when one of Courfeyrac’s hands slides up further, past his balls, prodding lightly, experimentally, at his hole. Marius, growing wetter with Courfeyrac’s touch, whines at the overwhelming stirring between his thighs; Courfeyrac mutters into his neck, “It’s alright, Marius, you’re alright,” and then, “Oh, there, there you go,” as he slides his index finger into Marius’ body to the knuckle with a soft, squelching sound, an awkward position, leaving Marius desperate with teasing want and unable to do anything about it, shifting his hips uselessly to find that pleasure he’s so desperate for Courfeyrac to wring out of him. Courfeyrac is still, finger buried in Marius’ wetness while his other hand pulls at the skin of Marius’ naked thigh, to bare him for a better view. His nose is pressed into Marius’ sweat-slicked neck when he mutters, “Let’s get you laid out now, shall we?”

Marius makes an incoherent sound as Courfeyrac’s hands travel back up to his waist, smearing his slick in the creases of his pelvis, and the air cools the trails of wetness on his abdomen. “Yes,” he cries, “God, yes please.” As Courfeyrac moves out from behind him his clothing scratches against Marius’ bare skin.

“Such a good boy, love,” Courfeyrac mumbles, eyelashes fluttering against Marius’ skin as he peppers kisses across Marius’ freckled shoulder. Marius lets Courfeyrac position him, obedient and malleable in Courfeyrac’s hold. “There you go, like that, right over the table.” Courfeyrac rubs his thumbs into the dimples of Marius’ back. “Spread your legs a bit,” he says, but before Marius can get his bearings, Courfeyrac nudges a knee in between Marius’ legs gently and does just that, leaning over Marius afterward to press a kiss into Marius’ neck.

Marius’ nerves ripple at the touch of Courfeyrac’s lips, as he stretches and writhes against the hard wood of the table. The surface is cool and smooth against his stomach and chest, his nipples hard and pressed into the flesh of his breast. He presses his face onto the tabletop and it sticks with his sweat. Courfeyrac’s shadow encompasses him like a cocoon.

Courfeyrac’s lips rest on the back of Marius’ shoulder, nipping at Marius’ sweat, darting his tongue out to taste Marius’ skin. Marius is slack and lazy, moaning softly when Courfeyrac touches him, rutting lightly against the table when Courfeyrac takes him in both hands and spreads his cheeks. The air chills his dripping hole; he can feel the breeze inside him. Courfeyrac’s thumbs skirt between his cheeks to rub his opening gently—Marius arches into his touch, much louder than he’d like to be but too desperate to mind it.

Courfeyrac kneads Marius gently before his hand comes away, and at that Marius whines and writhes, just before Courfeyrac’s hand is back and he’s sliding two fingers into the wet warmth of Marius. Marius opens for him easily, taking in his fingers greedily, spreading his knees apart further and pressing his face into the table as Courfeyrac’s hand wrings soft, bubbling moans from his throat, and out of his continuously parted lips.

Courfeyrac comes off of Marius slowly, still buried twice to the knuckle, trailing his lips down Marius’ shoulder before coming away off his shoulder blade. Room to move, now, Marius breathes deeply, and his expanding chest presses into the table. But before he knows it Courfeyrac is holding him down, the hand that isn’t inside him flat against the arch of his upper back. Courfeyrac’s fingertips set ablaze Marius’ skin in one place and Marius’ wetness in another. He can hear Courfeyrac mutter softly, “Oh how beautiful, how debauched, isn’t he gorgeous?” Marius’ lips drag across the surface of the table, his nose pressing into it also as he writhes and pants and lets Courfeyrac touch him, press into him, move inside him. He can feel with every nerve Courfeyrac’s fingers breaching his hole, plunging into his slickness. His shifts; his swollen cock rests uncomfortably under his hips. Courfeyrac twists his hand, working Marius almost clinically, but for the tiny swears that fall from his lips and the praises that fall in the same to Marius’ ears and the ears of the others. “Oh, look how _wet_ ”—and it’s true, as when he slips a third finger into Marius, Marius is squirming and dripping off his hand—“So tight too, Christ, oh if a single one of you attempts to harm this absolute gift I swear I’ll have your head before you can hear me coming after you.” Through it all Courfeyrac’s voice is soft and reverent. Marius stretches his arms out in front of him, burying his face in the soft, pliant flesh of his upper arms, moving his hips gently yet erratically against Courfeyrac’s fingers.

Marius has had Courfeyrac’s fingers before; they’re familiar enough, but here, in the open, air cooling his thighs as do the gazes of unfamiliar men, Marius feels like he’s in a different world. He keens, tipping his head down and spreading his legs, letting Courfeyrac open him, stretch him, display him. Courfeyrac’s fingers plunge in deeper, forcing lubrication of out him, two pressing into his prostate. It’s the shock that has him gasping, that has his cock throbbing where it’s trapped between the surface of the table and his thigh. Courfeyrac takes pity on him, stretching his thumb to run it over his swollen balls. Marius is both dizzied and aroused beyond belief at the notion that everyone can see. Still he writhes with an irrepressible wanton enthusiasm, loving Courfeyrac’s fingers even though he wants cock, enjoying the friction he finds against the table even though it’s practically nothing.

Every so often Marius catches a murmur of encouragement, or a tiny sigh or praise, from the surrounding men, and he doesn’t so much block out the comments as he lets them sweep through him, quick through his head, slow and savoring through the rest of him. He’s flushed all over with either shame or arousal and he’s quite content not to think too much about the former. Instead he thinks of Courfeyrac’s fingers, lets them penetrate to the core his mind as well as his body.

He is caught off guard when Courfeyrac leans over him again, but he leans up into the man nevertheless. Courfeyrac removes his fingers from Marius but the heat of his body is almost as good, as he presses his lips into Marius’ baking neck and spreads Marius open with his hands once again.

“Marius,” Courfeyrac whispers, into the creases of Marius’ neck, “Would you have me first?” Courfeyrac leans over further to press a kiss to Marius’ jaw, and Marius can feel Courfeyrac’s erection pressing through clothing in between his spread cheeks.

“ _Mmh_ ”—Marius mumbles, frantic in his words or lack thereof—“Please Courfeyrac, please, I beg you, oh God…” Without Courfeyrac’s fingers inside him he is open and empty, twitching desperately with the need to be filled once again. He moans lightly, shifting his hips, and his cock slides against the tabletop.

In response to that Marius can only manage a high-pitched whine. Courfeyrac pounds into him ruthlessly, and Marius can feel his own fluid squelching inside him around Courfeyrac’s cock.

The constant pulse of Courfeyrac inside of him lulls Marius into a soft of blissful reverie, his cheek pressed flat against the table which scrapes against his cheekbone though he doesn’t quite mind. Courfeyrac lifts his rear, slamming into him wetly, erratically, and the corner of Marius’ mouth catches on the table’s surface, dripping saliva onto it, leaving it smeared over his lips as he’s rocked and taken.

Courfeyrac is kissing the arch of Marius’ spine, both hands on Marius’ hips digging lovingly into his blazing flesh, when Marius feels a presence by his head. He looks up, air cooling the saliva smeared over his reddened lips, to see the face of a man whose name it takes Marius a moment to remember, in his blissed-out state. This man sits perched on the edge of the table, slim legs swinging off the side, and Marius can already smell then intensity of his arousal. He brushes sweat-soaked hair from Marius’ forehead, fingertips gentle as they graze his skin. Next he wipes saliva from the corner of Marius’ lips with his thumb. At the touch of his hand to Marius’ mouth Marius parts his lips further, whining softly. “Hello,” the man sighs, a tiny smile adorning his lips. “I am Jehan.” His auburn hair is mussed, from pulling on it or scratching it or a simple, momentary lack of concern for it, but it looks like he doesn’t realize.

Marius nods, gasping when Courfeyrac rocks into him roughly. “Prouvaire?” He cries out, then, when Courfeyrac shocks him by pounding into his prostate, thrice in succession.

“Prouvaire, if you like.”

A moment passes, Marius drawn near to incoherency by Courfeyrac’s thrusts, craning into Prouvaire’s hand when Prouvaire caresses his hair.

“Is this alright?” he asks, somewhat timid, fingertips stilling at Marius’ temple. “You’re awfully pretty.”

Marius groans a soft affirmative, craving touch, finding it contentedly in Prouvaire’s ministrations.

When Prouvaire draws his legs up, Marius presses his face into the meat of his thigh, letting Prouvaire run slender fingers lovingly through his matted hair, as Courfeyrac takes him apart, and Prouvaire smoothes him back together. Prouvaire’s hands are gentle upon Marius’ tender cheeks, and when Marius expels tears onto his threadbare trousers, he bends down to press a kiss into the back of Marius’ head, Marius’ sweat coming off of his hair and onto Prouvaire’s lips.

Courfeyrac, thick and heady inside him, as he lifts Marius hips and finds a new angle, bottoming out and hitting Marius much deeper, causing Marius to cry out again in pain and pleasure alike. With a particularly strong thrust and a little maneuvering with his arms Courfeyrac manages to lift Marius’ knees onto the table, and now his balls smack against Marius’ as Marius’ legs spread further and wetness dribbles between them. Courfeyrac groans, hands on Marius’ hips, “There you go, oh, just like last time,” his words trailing off into an unintelligible grunt.

“Last time…” Marius mumbles, voice high and weak, to no one in particular, as pleasure racks him mercilessly, his knees weak but his only means of remaining balanced. “ _Oh, God._ ”

Before Marius knows it he finds himself grasping frantically at the front tails of Prouvaire’s shirt, searching with his arms as his legs grow weak and as Courfeyrac’s hands move back to his waist, savoring as they slide over the damp small of his back. Again Courfeyrac presses his face into Marius’ shoulder, nipping lightly at his jaw. Prouvaire runs one hand through Marius’ damp, tangled locks, and the other through Courfeyrac’s darker curls, smiling sweetly and amazedly down at them both. "Oh God," Marius can't help but whine, as Courfeyrac shakes him from behind and his everything quivers helplessly, " _Courfeyrac._ "

Another particularly intense thrust from Courfeyrac has Marius’ forehead slipping off Prouvaire’s leg and slamming into the table, warranting only a long groan, whose cause, pain or pleasure, even Marius isn’t sure of. Someone calls out, “Well don’t break him for the rest of us!” and Marius is too exhausted already to try to identify the voice.

Courfeyrac mutters, more to Marius than anyone else, moving inside of Marius slowly and indulgently, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Courfeyrac’s hands soon tighten on Marius’ pliant waist and his hips gain speed; he swears into Marius’ shoulder as the slide of his cock inside Marius grows steady, rapid. His hips smack against Marius’ thighs and Marius’ wetness comes off on his skin. Marius’ legs attempt to spread to accommodate him further but at a point it becomes useless, desperate, greedy. Marius feels like he is all of these things. Courfeyrac climaxes with his face buried in Marius’ shoulder, his teeth grazing Marius’ skin and Prouvaire’s hand on his bare, damp shoulder. He shudders against Marius as he spills inside him, twitching tangibly inside Marius’ too-sensitive opening. Marius’ still hard and impossibly close, nose pressed into Prouvaire’s knee, writhes and whines when Courfeyrac pulls out of him, patting his thighs, kissing his cheek and telling him, “Marius, sweet, slutty Marius, all of my happiness I owe to you.”

Marius shudders at that, looking up at Prouvaire expectantly, eyelashes smeared with tears and sweat. Prouvaire takes his face in hand once again, caressing his flushed cheekbones, pressing fingertips into his burning skin and muttering, “Just a moment, our dear Marius,” before slipping away, leaving Marius praying that Prouvaire is finding his place behind him. He is twitching again, filled with cum but empty in want, leaking both his own fluids and Courfeyrac’s off his balls and between his thighs, onto the table.

Courfeyrac is back at Marius’ side soon enough, wiping tears off his cheeks, pressing a kiss into his forehead. Marius leans up into Courfeyrac’s lips, gasping when he feels hands—Prouvaire’s—settle on his hips. “Marius,” Courfeyrac mumbles into Marius’ temple, “Marius, are you enjoying this?”

Marius can’t help but smile, and his lips feel awkward when they stretch. “I’d just about die without it.” Prouvaire’s thumbs rub tiny circles in Marius’ back, and he shifts his hips, arching slightly and groaning.

“I’m glad,” Courfeyrac says, pressing his lips against Marius’ cheekbone before he’s left Marius again, Marius too strung out to try to see where he’s gone.

As soon as Marius misses Courfeyrac, Prouvaire is upon him, hands skirting up sides, lips light against his shoulder blade. Marius puts his head back down with a soft whine, surrendered to Prouvaire’s touch.

“Oh Marius,” Prouvaire whispers, his breath soft against Marius’ skin like the caress of a cloud, “you’re beautiful.” He caresses Marius’ other arching shoulder blade with graceful fingertips. “It pains me to see you in such pain, but I can only imagine it’s for the best.”

“I don’t need you to comfort me,” Marius croaks, shame melting into good humor, a pained grin on his red lips. “Just to screw me.”

“As you wish, dear Marius,” Prouvaire says, and he comes away from Marius’ back, hands planted firm again on Marius’ hips. “I’ll take care of you though, you can be sure of that.” Again he rubs small circles into Marius’ skin. “Your Courfeyrac left you in good hands.”

One of his hands comes away and Marius shifts into the other, folding his arms under his face and panting into the crook of his elbow, cheeks pressing into the plump flesh of his arm.

When Marius feels Prouvaire’s hand again it’s caressing him lightly between his cheeks, and then he feels something pressing into the opening of his wetness and he keens with the realization that it is Prouvaire’s cock he holds in the ring of his fingers, rubbing against Marius’ rim but not yet venturing inside. Marius can feel Prouvaire massaging his tip with his thumb, his rough, bitten fingernail moving against Marius’ skin with every smooth, circular motion. And he can hear Prouvaire sighing over him, and so he bucks his hips so that Prouvaire’s sleek tip catches on his need.

“Please,” Marius croaks, and Prouvaire obliges, guiding himself into Marius with his hand and handling himself gently, pressing sweetly into every ridge, every nerve inside of Marius, filling him deeply as would a water spout a bucket or a brewer a glass.

Once engulfed Prouvaire rolls his hips gently and Marius can feel him leaking, the soft skim of his cock comfortable and filling. His slight wetness mingles with Marius’ own and Courfeyrac’s seed, and Marius is lost once again in reverie. With each spurt from either Prouvaire or himself, he can feel the air, more palpable, between his buttocks.

Marius is seized by orgasm, then, lips slicking saliva across the inside of his arm as he groans, spilling onto the table without ever being touched. His hand shoots down to grasp himself, torn between two purposes: to cover himself, to hide his spontaneous, near unprompted release from the room of hungry, watchful eyes; and to stroke himself, to ride out his climax unhindered, touching himself all the way.

Marius clenches around Prouvaire, his body growing weak, and the man groans, taking a moment to slow and to ask, “Are you finished, Marius?” He leans down, pressing his nose and lips into the nape of Marius’ neck but not yet pulling out, his cock unmoving inside Marius but for its own light twitches, all the more tantalizing still. “Would you like me to stop?”

Marius groans, pants, “No, God no,” and he rocks his hips roughly, driving Prouvaire deeper into him, urging him to resume.

Prouvaire takes his time, then, moving deeply and indulgently, savoring Marius’ body and soon, his hands still planted firmly upon Marius’ rocking hips, his thrusts grow steadier, with a singularly focused intent.

Prouvaire’s rhythm is gentle yet fearless and Marius shakes with it, Prouvaire careful not to hurt Marius but in the same assured that he won’t. He is relentless but with concern, fucking Marius roughly but reverently. His words are gentle and sweet, met with the rough slam of his hips, calling Marius _angel_ and _sweetheart_ and _darling,_ asking if he’s alright which is always met with “Yes, I’m fine, oh God, _Jehan._ ”

Marius is hard again, cupping himself in loose fingers, his face still buried in the arm that isn’t stretched between his legs. Prouvaire has him rocking into his own slicked palm and wrist.

“I am truly sorry, Marius,” Prouvaire mutters, his breath leaving him in a soft grunt, Marius arching up into him, “that I could not hold out for you longer,” and with this he spills, with open lips and firm hands, hips jerking before they seize. He stays buried inside Marius completely, his release spurting against Marius’ prostate, slippery inside of Marius, dripping when Prouvaire pulls out.

He soon is beside Marius, again, carding his fingers through Marius’ hair, lifting Marius’ face to press a kiss to his cheek. When Marius leans into him Prouvaire kisses his mouth, Marius’ lips swollen and wet, struggling to work.” _Angel,_ ” Prouvaire whispers, “ _sweet angel,_ ” and Marius slips his eyes shut, surrendering tom Prouvaire’s caress, letting the man pepper kisses up the side of his face. When Marius feels another hand on his hip he starts, pressing his face into the crook of Prouvaire’s neck, and Prouvaire only smiles.

“Bossuet, my friend,” Marius hears him say. “Take your share of our new sweetheart.” Prouvaire kisses Marius’ forehead one last time before stepping away reluctantly.

Marius doesn’t have a moment to feel lonely, as Bossuet steps up behind him, running gently fingertips along his spine. “Marius,” he asks, “Are you comfortable?”

Marius nods, his temple rubbing against the table. “Yes, yes, please.”

Bossuet enters Marius languidly, his hands on Marius’ hips. With his first thrust he rocks Marius slowly, tentatively; with his second, he nestles up against Marius’ prostate, causing Marius to cry out, shivering with a low moan as he pulls back again.

Bossuet is gentler than Prouvaire, somehow, but more arbitrary. It’s a slow dance, a waltz to a band who can’t quite keep their playing steady, as Bossuet takes Marius apart and Marius manages to do the same to Bossuet, swallowing all he can get and demanding more.

Marius’ mouth waters as his lips brush against the table and he doesn’t notice until the sound of his own voice reaches his ears that he’s called out, in a low, vibrating croak, “ _Courfeyrac…_ ” And then he feels it, in his throat, in his chest. Courfeyrac is at his side again in an instant, brushing sweaty locks from his forehead, feeling and fussing over his temperature, ensuring that he’s alright.

“Have I hurt him?” Bossuet asks, slowing his pace.

“No, keep going, for fuck’s sake,” Courfeyrac snaps, more desperately than harshly, helping to hold Marius up as he rocks into Bossuet’s thrusts.

“Courfeyrac,” Marius whimpers, flushing bright as the words leave his mouth, “I need more.”

Courfeyrac’s breath catches audibly in his throat as he leans down to press a fervent kiss to Marius’ forehead, his fingertips smoothing through Marius’ hair. “Your wish is my command,” he whispers, pressing another sloppy kiss to Marius’ head, savoring the feeling of Marius’ hot skin before he pulls back slowly, reluctantly, just so that he may go and find Marius what he needs.

Marius stretches his neck to watch after Courfeyrac, barely catching a glimpse of Courfeyrac whispering into the ear of someone just out of the field of his vision. Marius can only imagine what he’s saying. His cheeks burn red as he bows his head once again to the table, only to be roused a moment later by Bossuet’s hand, slowly stroking his side. Then he feels slender fingers against his cheek, and he looks up to see Joly, who strokes his face gently. In his other hand Joly holds his own hard cock as if an offering, saying softly, “Marius, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Oh, but is there any doubt now?” Marius can only imagine what a mess he looks, laughing softly through shining lips, his voice giving out when Bossuet brushes against his prostate again. “If anything I beg you, let me suck you.”

Joly gulps, his eyelids fluttering. “Of course.” His hand tightens around himself as he steps forward, bringing himself tantalizingly close to Marius.

It’s sloppy as Marius cranes his neck, opens his mouth, searches with his tongue. As his lips brush wetly across Joly’s head he releases a spurt of pre-cum against Marius’ mouth, a soft sound escaping his lips. When Marius gets his lips around Joly’s tip, Joly comes closer, fingers flexing around his base, reluctant to let go, trying to keep some semblance of control. Marius sucks with conviction, taking in Joly’s hardness as if it is some antidote to a horrible poison; in a way, it is, and Marius’ swollen lips find the sweetest cure wrapped around Joly’s hot, slick flesh.

Slowly Joly’s hand falls from grasping his base to fondling his balls, his face falling into an expression of badly repressed bliss as Marius’ lips slide down to his base, and his sensitive tip grazes the back of Marius’ throat. Joly’s other hand creeps along Marius’ spine, rubbing his back gently, urging him on. There is another hand, sliding up Marius’ back, sliding upon Joly’s, slotting their fingers together and Marius knows, then, that Bossuet finds comfort in Joly, and Joly, in Bossuet. He ducks into the table, thrown off by the sheer humanness of it, the reality shaking him into crushing consciousness, his mouth falling slacker upon Joly.

Noticing Marius’ unease, Joly slides his other hand up to cup Marius’ chin, to hold him up, to meet his eyes in a silent question that is answered only by Marius squeezing his eyes shut and licking at Joly energetically. Joly is hard and heady in Marius’ mouth and he begins to thrust in earnest, with far more concern for Marius than for his own modesty, his cock pumping wetly between Marius’ parted, shining lips.

Bossuet leans down, his lips pressing into Marius’ shoulder but catching contentedly on Joly’s fingertips, still intertwined with his own. When Bossuet comes, Joly arches up the joints of his fingertips to brush against Bossuet’s cheek, and Marius feels this all against his skin. He feels Bossuet, releasing inside him, Bossuet’s mouth parting in a quiet sigh when he presses his lips fully into Joly’s hand, his own hands clutching one on Marius’ hip and the other on Joly’s wrist. The hand Joly had on Marius’ face slides up into his hair and Joly tugs, lightly, before smoothing down Marius’ locks apologetically, his other hand caressing Bossuet’s cheek as he comes down.

When Bossuet pulls away, Joly’s hand slides to the nape of Marius’ neck, to tug gently on the stray locks that curl and stick with sweat to Marius’ skin. It is a moment before Joly comes as well, twitching between Marius’ lips, spending onto his tongue. Marius layers his tongue over Joly’s head, chasing him fleetingly as he pulls away, his softening cock shining with the wetness of Marius’ saliva and his own release. Marius licks his lips, not to clean them but to taste, the elusive whiteness shining like gloss over his reddened flesh. A trail of saliva connects the Joly’s tip to Marius mouth and with a soft sigh Joly blots it away with the pad of his thumb, lingering on Marius’ defiled lips before stepping away reluctantly.

It is only when Joly is gone that Marius reaches down to touch himself, squeezing with firm fingers his own hot, begging flesh, feeling the wetness that drips from him with small, savoring squeezes and almost hesitant strokes.

Marius touches himself as if he is alone, with barely a thought but for his own need, a thick near silence coming to encompass the room, punctuated only by the wet slide of Marius’ hand around his dick, and by the soft, careless moans that fall from his lips. When he comes he moans with abandon, at no one’s touch but his own, his hips jerking before they still, spilling over the table as he comes down with a twitch that racks his whole body.

When he finishes, panting heavily, he relaxes on the table, lets fluid drip down his thighs, does nothing but breathe until he feels a hand upon him and he hears behind him a gentle voice, a firm one. “Marius.” And both hands slide up to the expanse of flushed skin between his hips and his waist, blood blossoming pinker across his skin. Marius cranes his neck to look behind and sees Combeferre, his shirt unbuttoned hanging over his chest, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, his face flushed and shining with sweat but ultimately calm, concentrated. With a soft whimper Marius puts his head back down, letting Combeferre guide his hips to Combeferre’s own, Combeferre’s hardening cock already unclothed and nestling between Marius’ cheeks.

“Tell me, Marius,” he breathes, his voice heady, demanding and asking all in the same. “Are you ashamed?”

Marius moans lightly, distracted by the slide of his own seed down his cock and thighs. When he says nothing Combeferre squeezes the flesh of his hips gently, reassuringly, and he is moved to respond with a small, imperceptible nod and a choked thing of a sob and a gasp in the same. Still he spreads his legs further in an attempt to bring Combeferre closer.

“You mustn’t be.” Combeferre’s touch is unfamiliar but comforting regardless, as he strokes his hands up and down Marius’ thighs. “So long as you need us, we will be your friends.”

Marius mumbles something that is barely anything, rocking his hips back into Combeferre’s growing hardness, wiping the wetness of his eyes on his forearms, the hair there already matted from the countless times he’s done so already.

Finally, Combeferre asks almost modestly, “May I, Marius?”

With a choked sob Marius keens, “I beg you,” spreading his knees apart as Combeferre guides himself into the dripping warmth of Marius’ entrance.

He enters Marius slowly, panting harshly as Marius opens for him, thrusting shallowly as Marius engulfs him. “Oh my, Marius,” he mutters, one hand coming away from Marius’ hips presumably to adjust his glasses, returning dampened with sweat and trembling lightly. Combeferre lets out a low groan as he moves inside Marius, his hands roaming from their place on Marius’ hips around to his front, pulling at the supple, plump flesh of Marius’ thighs where Marius’ cock hangs, dripping again, between them. Marius’ thighs spread easily as Combeferre pulls him closer, gripping them with pure, ravenous concentration, thrusting into him steadily.

Marius is driven into the table, scrambling to hold onto nothing as Combeferre slams into him, each moan coming as a choked sob from his spit-slicked, open lips. “Oh, oh _God,_ ” Marius gasps, his voice akin to a whimper, embarrassing to his own ears. As Combeferre slides in and out of him, roughly and wetly and gripping Marius’ thighs in savoring hands, Marius is driven to a mumbling incoherency.

Yet soon one of Combeferre’s hands comes away, and Marius relaxes into the table with only one thigh held apart from the other. When Combeferre pulls out, though, harshly and unexpectedly, Marius whines lowly, his hole quivering with its emptiness, aching to be had, to be full once again. Still, behind him Marius hears a wet, sliding sound that lets him know just what Combeferre is doing.

Marius moans, spreading his knees to bring his cock closer to the nearest surface he can rut against, Combeferre gripping his ass cheek with his one free hand. “Touch yourself,” Combeferre breathes, a low groan escaping his throat.

Without hesitation Marius obliges, snaking his hand down between his legs, wringing his cock eagerly and rolling his hips.

When Marius feels Combeferre’s cum hit his thighs he gasps, clenching when semen splatters across his hole, shuddering when it drips down his balls. He opens his mouth with a moan that doesn’t quite reach his lips and gasps as it rattles his chest. He presses his face into his elbow when he releases again, Combeferre stroking his thighs throughout, whispering that he should never be ashamed, he should never shy away from his friends.

And then Combeferre is gone, and Marius is dazed. Someone else steps up behind him and Marius sighs contentedly when thin lips brush over his shoulder blade. “Listen to Combeferre,” Feuilly whispers, his breath ghosting across Marius’ skin as he slides his limber fingers into Marius’ open wetness. “He is right. We will _always_ be here for you.”

Before taking pleasure from Marius Feuilly searches him with his hands, exploring with caring fingertips the complexities of Marius’ inner workings—spots that bring pleasure, nerves that bring pain. His digits are long, slender, and Marius savors them, wanting to be fucked but loving being touched, being studied, being felt. He is growing hard again and he ruts between Feuilly’s skilled fingers and the table’s damp surface.

When Feuilly enters Marius fully, it’s slow, reverent. He runs his fingers along Marius’ hips, one hand wet, trailing Marius’ own fluids across his skin and slicking down the hair on his legs. He moves with Marius, thick and full inside him, careful to give him just what he needs.

Feuilly hisses when Marius clenches around him, soft groans escaping through his teeth when he plunges in deep, rocking Marius and surprising himself. Feuilly’s reach is deep and his hips are fluid, and Marius can tell when he’s close to letting go.

Feuilly comes inside of Marius with a small, repressed groan, as his hips move roughly, sharply at his peak. He pulls out slowly, careful not to hurt Marius or to shock him, pressing his lips into the burning skin of Marius’ shoulder when Marius shudders at the loss.

“Sweet boy,” Feuilly mutters, his voice gruff yet gentle as his lips move down to the pliant skin near the small of Marius’ back. “Never worry.”

Marius flexes under Feuilly’s mouth, a soft gasp escaping his throat as his cock pulses between his thighs. Feuilly’s lips graze his cheek and his hip, and when finally Feuilly’s mouth is on him again, Marius shudders and gasps with force at the slow, wet kiss Feuilly presses into his dripping hole, Feuilly’s hands sliding up his thighs to spread his cheeks.

Feuilly nips at him indulgently, dipping his tongue inside to taste Marius’ natural lubrication as well as the seed of more than one other; he laps with reverence at the liquids of arousal that flow from Marius, coaxed out of him by Feuilly’s interested tongue only to drip down Marius’ thighs. Marius can feel Feuilly’s breath against his cleft, the tip of Feuilly’s nose brushing against him. Feuilly’s tongue moves inside and against him, sometimes fleeting, sometimes savoring.

And then Feuilly is yanked away and Marius is cold and empty once again. He hears a voice behind him, “Well don’t hog him, you greedy little shit,” and he knows it is Bahorel and he presses his face into the table, squeezing his eyes shut, his hips squirming almost reflexively. He is hiding but welcoming, shamed but wanting.

“Have a little patience, you barbarian,” Feuilly replies, breathless, Marius’ labored breath stuttering as Bahorel slides a hand over his ass.

“Fuck you,” Bahorel hisses at Feuilly and then, to Marius, “Turn over,” moving his large, calloused hand to grip at Marius’ hip, guiding him as he flips himself over slowly, his legs spreading again instantly, his cock hard and bobbing back against his stomach. “I want to see you cry,” Bahorel says with a smirk, and Marius is already, tears sliding down his cheeks as he aches everywhere, his shoulder blades digging into the table, his muscles tense and weak, one knee pinned against the table as Bahorel holds him open. His face is hot as shuddering sobs rack him, his chest expanding visibly when he struggles to inhale.

When Marius looks up, what he sees has his head falling back against the table, a low moan bubbling up in his uncomfortably stretched throat. Feuilly is still on his knees, his lips parted as he pants, slick and shining with Marius’ wetness, the same wetness that drips onto the table between Marius’ thighs. Bahorel’s hand is tangled in Feuilly’s hair, holding him in place, pulling Feuilly’s head back to expose his neck and chest, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his collarbones sharp and his skin glistening with sweat. Bahorel doesn’t look at Feuilly but at Marius, sliding his hand down Marius’ thigh to slip a thumb inside of him. Marius shifts around it, desperately craving more, his hands at his sides and frantically grasping at nothing. He doesn’t have to endure it long before Bahorel yanks the digit out with little concern, chuckling at the sight of Marius’ open, eager hole, grasping Marius’ thigh with one hand and pulling sharply at Feuilly’s hair with the other to leave the third man gasping, pulled back on his knees, his trousers still undone as his tongue darts out to lick his lips, not to clean them but to taste the wetness already there.

As Bahorel slips his cock into Marius he tugs Feuilly up by his hair, Feuilly stumbling on weak but determined knees, Bahorel crushing his lips into Feuilly’s aggressively. The sound of Feuilly’s unabashed groan has Marius reeling, dazed as Bahorel slams into him, his swollen cock moving against his lower belly with the force of Bahorel’s hips. The reach of Bahorel inside him feels boundless, and Marius’ pain mingles with his pleasure in a dizzying reverie. Bahorel wastes no time in letting Marius adjust and Marius is just unthinking enough to appreciate it. Feuilly steadies himself with his hands on Bahorel’s shoulders, moaning when Bahorel pulls at his hair, his lips sliding slick with Marius’ fluid over Bahorel’s mouth.

Marius is enraptured by the sight, absolutely and completely, and he groans aloud at the sound Feuilly makes when Bahorel releases his hair only to scratch down his neck. Bahorel runs his hand down Feuilly’s chest, tugging at his shirt, before gripping Marius’ hips with both hands. He lifts Marius and Marius’ shoulders dig into the table, Marius’ legs flailing around Bahorel’s waist.

The stretch of Bahorel is almost unbearable, and the pleasure far past it. Tears are spilling down Marius’ face in earnest, now; he can feel the wetness dripping off his jaw and cheeks, collecting around his neck against the table. He stretches his arms over his head, buries his face again in the soft flesh of his upper arm, where his eyelids stick with salty tears, and where his flesh jiggles lightly as he’s rocked by Bahorel.

Feuilly hangs off Bahorel like a moth does a lantern, ravishing his mouth, his jaw, his neck when Bahorel gets distracted by Marius. When Feuilly sinks his teeth into the crook of Bahorel’s neck he locks eyes with Marius, looking away only when Bahorel takes a hand off of Marius to elbow Feuilly in the stomach. Feuilly recovers quickly, wrapping an arm around Bahorel’s broad shoulders and layering his tongue over Bahorel’s bruised skin. He reaches out with his other arm to lay a hand on Marius’ thigh, Marius arching up into the touch.

Without saying a word Feuilly struggles to keep a reassuring hand on Marius’ leg even as Marius and Bahorel move, simply holding him, caressing his skin. Under Feuilly’s touch Marius bites his bottom lip, the skin blooming bright red.

Gently Feuilly messages the crease between Marius’ thigh and pelvis, which shudders with each of Bahorel’s thrusts. Marius cants his hips and without further hesitation Feuilly gives him what he craves, wrapping his skilled fingers around Marius’ cock and pumping him lovingly. Marius gasps a ragged groan that reverberates in his chest.

“Sweetest Marius,” Feuilly breathes, “I’ve got you.”

Marius’ small moan of gratitude is cut off by a sharp jerk of Bahorel’s hips, pleasure spiking inside of Marius painfully, Marius crying out roughly in a mix of the two.

“Why should you treat the boy like some poor tortured soul,” Bahorel grunts, smirking as Marius goes slacker beneath him, “When all he is truly is a greedy little whore.”

Marius begins to groan in protest but the thought is lost in an instant, his eyes falling shut under the perfect torture of Bahorel’s cock and of Feuilly’s hand. He moves his hips as if an unconscious reflex, panting lightly, his cock sliding easily through the ring of Feuilly’s fingers.

“It’s a wonder to me, Bahorel,” Feuilly sighs, squeezing Marius lightly and eliciting a pleasured gasp, “that you’ve managed to get anyone into bed, speaking like that of your lovers.”

“Perhaps then, Feuilly,” Bahorel smirks, never once ceasing in his ruthless, pounding rhythm inside Marius who whines around his cock more intensely by the moment, “It would be of help to consult yourself.”

After a moment Marius hears Bahorel grunt in pain but he pays little mind, focusing instead of the contrast above him—Bahorel so demanding, Feuilly so giving, all of it so tantalizing and so impossible.

He comes with a sob and Feuilly nurses him through it, Bahorel’s lips pressed into Feuilly’s cheekbone and Feuilly intent on Marius regardless. Marius’ thighs quiver around Bahorel as seed trickles out of him; he pants and shakes and thinks that it is all too much. Bahorel doesn’t stop and Marius is exhausted but content, squeezing his eyes shut as Bahorel fucks into him for a few last moments, a soft smile finding its way only his lips as Feuilly steps gingerly around the table to press a fleeting kiss into Marius’ neck. Feuilly’s hair tickles Marius’ jaw as Feuilly strokes his shoulders, his chest, his upper arms and his stomach. And Marius’ cock is spent but pulsing again, a sharp ache reverberating within him, his body demanding of him what he cannot give. With a soft grunt he lowers his arms to his sides, then places his hands on Feuilly’s shoulders, seeking some leverage as Bahorel continues to pound into him roughly and, finally, finishes, spurting into Marius with a grunted swear and pulling out without grace.

When Bahorel leaves he takes Feuilly with him, and Marius, left alone, relaxes into the table, catching his breath, his legs splayed and his cock flaccid and wet between his thighs. He allows himself a brief stretch, uncaring that he is being watched by so many, concerned only for his taut, aching muscles.

Marius soon hears footsteps approaching, but he cannot find it in him to turn and look. And so he waits and it is not long before someone is grabbing his hand, twisting his arm above his head, and pinning his wrist to the tabletop. It is Marius’ first instinct to appreciate and it is his second to fight (at any other time it would have been the other way around), and when he gets a good look at the face above him he gasps because it is _Enjolras—_ and he thinks, _not Enjolras, Enjolras would never._ What little he knows of the man, gathered vaguely from a brief argument and from Courfeyrac’s various anecdotes, coupled with the thought of Enjolras above him, himself bare, Enjolras firm, has him reeling.

He watches Enjolras’ face—the rosy cheeks that flush with perhaps anger but surely passion, that soft, pink, pouting bottom lip, the golden curls that fall, cascading, over the man’s shoulders that look, from where Marius lies, to shimmer as if some remnant of an angel left behind.

Marius’ breath catches in his throat when Enjolras—leaning, looming, over Marius—uses his free hand to undo his trousers, swiftly and efficiently. Marius’ hole throbs not from pleasure but from overuse, and still he spreads his thighs easily; part of him screams that he can handle no more, part of him that he will have no less. He is a mess and beyond all doubt a sight for the innocent eye and yet, he barely has to think before he welcomes Enjolras not with open arms but with open legs.

“I don’t suppose you’ve thought twice”—Enjolras sneers, grinding Marius’ wrist into the table’s surface—“before disrupting my meeting with your antics.”

“Enjolras,” Marius gasps but finds nothing else to say, his cheeks burning, Enjolras as difficult to look at as the sun outside but a thousand times more enticing.

“Really, Marius,” Enjolras says, stroking himself idly to full hardness, “Was it not enough to come here spewing mindless praise for _Buonaparte?_ Have you not considered that my men have more important things to do than to educate you and to screw you?”

Marius gulps and says nothing, choking on air when Enjolras lines himself up with a hand at his base, not bothering to undress, pressing into Marius without hesitation. Enjolras looks into Marius’ eyes, ravenous blue waves in his own that captivate Marius and intimidate him. Marius gives way under Enjolras, Enjolras breaching his tired muscle easily, a soft, out-of-place sigh leaving Enjolras’ throat as he sinks inside. In a moment however he is steadfast again, the tide of him coming back upon Marius overwhelmingly, Enjolras’ hips moving sharply, harshly, and concentrated, as do the words he spits, disdainful and cruel, to Marius who only moans at them.

“It is no surprise to me, Marius, that you are so _loose,_ ” Enjolras says, his voice rough, and when Marius shifts his thighs to feel the weight of Enjolras in him, when he reaches down to feel the perking interest of his cock Enjolras catches his hand, bruising his wrist, and presses it above Marius’ head with the other, having to stretch over Marius and sink deeper, snapping his hips sharply and causing Marius to cry out. “I suppose like your country,” he growls into Marius’ ear, his breath hot, his body inviting as Marius pulls up his knees to accommodate him, “you fancy yourself to be conquered by any man who pleases.”

Marius’ balls shake as Enjolras drives his cock into him, a shaky moan sliding past his lips. Marius’ cock is not hard but grateful, definitely, for the overstimulation that pains Marius so, leaking barely noticeably from his tip, twitching and spent and hurting.

“No sense of loyalty, have you?” Enjolras almost _snarls,_ the heat of his mouth and his body and his overwhelming closeness tantalizing Marius and sating him, all in the same. Marius groans as he writhes, his forearms working against Enjolras’ firm hold, his chest and the sensitive peaks of his nipples rubbing against Enjolras’ scratchy clothing. When Marius turns his head, his lips brush over Enjolras’ cheek; Enjolras cringes but moves closer, deeper. He goes on, “I’d ask how Courfeyrac feels about that but heaven knows he’s just as bad.”

“No, no, we’re not—” Marius sputters, his head falling back, and he fears he’s spat on Enjolras’ cheek but Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice, his cock buried deep, his face mostly stoic regardless though Marius can hardly see it with Enjolras so close.

Enjolras’ lips brush against the shell of Marius’ ear, and his fingers flex lightly in their hold on Marius’ wrists. “To think I imagined you might be fit to fight in the revolution…” Enjolras says, scorn in his voice, and Marius feels as if Enjolras’ words are bouncing off his skin. He can smell Enjolras’ hair and he cannot stop thinking that Enjolras is so beautiful, if only objectively, and still not once does the knowledge leave him that this is all for him. He face and chest flush pink, visible only to Enjolras who moves above him. “…when you can barely even handle your own _heats—_ ”

Someone interrupts, loud and firm, “ _Enjolras._ ” And Marius’ heart swells at the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice.

Enjolras ignores him, climaxing with a low moan, his clothed forearms pressed into Marius’ bare ones, and his face into Marius’ neck. At the feeling inside him Marius inhales deeply, Enjolras’ hair sticking to his lips when he and Enjolras part.

After pulling out Enjolras deftly tucks himself back into his trousers, and before he steps away he puts a hand on Marius’ thigh with an intense expression Marius can’t quite place.

And then Enjolras is gone, and Marius again is left alone, spent all over. This time, it is Courfeyrac who comes to him, laying a hand over Marius’ shoulder, thumb rubbing idly where it brushes the edge of Marius’ pectoral. “Oh, Marius,” is he says, his voice thick and dreamy with something like pride.

“Courfeyrac,” Marius says, wincing at the sound of his own voice. He realizes with a startled groan that his legs are still parted and his cock still throbbing between them, soft and spent but still wanting. “Courfeyrac,” Marius says again, his voice a low, desperate rumble.

“Say no more,” Courfeyrac says as he steps around the table and fits himself between Marius’ legs, reaching first for Marius’ face. He presses himself into Marius as Enjolras did, but this time only in love, cupping Marius’ face in both hands as he kisses him, his palms hot against Marius’ cheeks. Marius’ naked groin rubs against Courfeyrac’s clothes hips, the scratch of the fabric causing Marius to yelp into Courfeyrac’s mouth, and Courfeyrac grins before he moves to nip at the skin of Marius’ neck.

Courfeyrac kisses down Marius’ body slowly and indulgently, as if he and Marius are alone. Marius breathes deeply at the slide of Courfeyrac’s lips and tongue down his chest and stomach, too exhausted to do anything but lie back and enjoy.

Courfeyrac doesn’t tease when he reaches Marius’ lower stomach, simply moving on to mouth at Marius’ cock, pressing his lips into Marius’ base purposefully. Marius’ cringes, oversensitive and sparking with pain, pleasure shooting up his spine regardless when Courfeyrac takes him into his mouth.

Courfeyrac suckles Marius’ head lightly, careful not to hurt him glancing up whenever he can to meet Marius’ eyes. Marius nods and does not tip his head back like he wants to, because to look away would be to be overwhelmed with pain, but to look at Courfeyrac is to be overwhelmed with something that leaves Marius with a heavy heart and a light head, something that assuages his pain and even in his state brings him close to desire.

Courfeyrac’s tongue is exquisite and his lips are plush and practiced, and the sight of his cock sliding between them has Marius breathless. He aches to tangle his fingers in Courfeyrac’s hair but not to bring Courfeyrac closer because he doesn’t think his body can handle it, and certainly not to push Courfeyrac away because that is the last thing he wants. So, he doesn’t touch Courfeyrac at all, and he endures the terrible pleasure he could never refuse, Courfeyrac’s lips stretched around him, Courfeyrac swallowing him down with his own brand of casual conviction. Courfeyrac has one hand on Marius’ thigh and the other gently rubbing the inside of Marius’ knee, as he tastes Marius selflessly, pleasures Marius enthusiastically.

When Marius spills it is barely even that; he is barely hard and he trickles lightly, and Courfeyrac sucks but not too hard, just enough to draw out what Marius’ body cannot force. Marius slips from Courfeyrac’s lips, raw and hurting, and he winces when his own cock drops back against his thigh.

With Marius struggling for breath above him, Courfeyrac takes Marius’ hand in his own, kneeling as if about to propose, smoothing both thumbs over Marius’ palm and pressing his lips into Marius’ wrist. Marius reaches weakly to caress Courfeyrac’s face, fingers flexing before they grow tired and slack. “Come home,” Courfeyrac says, “Sleep in my bed. The mattress just won’t do, not with you in this condition.”

“I couldn’t ask you to sleep on a spare mattress in your own home,” Marius says, grateful but taken aback.

“Nor will I have to, if you wouldn’t condemn me tonight,” says Courfeyrac, kissing up to Marius’ elbow, and Marius understands.

As they leave Marius bids farewell to each man in turn, woozy on his knees and his clothes wrinkled, gushing with modesty and gratitude. Bahorel actually thanks him, and so does Bossuet; Jean Prouvaire blushes wildly and compliments Marius excessively; Combeferre reassures him, and Joly laughs with him. Feuilly tells Marius he is always welcome, and Enjolras doesn’t apologize but tells him never to be afraid to come back, and that they need as many men as they can gather.

When Marius comes to Grantaire, whose presence startles him, Grantaire clasps his hand and says with a self-deprecating grin, “I apologize, Marius, I couldn’t, but it seems you had a good time regardless.” Following Grantaire’s brief glance at Enjolras, this, too, Marius understands.

He and Courfeyrac take a fiacre home because Marius can barely walk, and when Marius lays his head in Courfeyrac’s lap, any attempt at inconspicuousness is forgotten. Courfeyrac strokes Marius’ hair idly as he watches out the carriage window for his building.

Once inside, Marius strips, folding his clothes and setting them aside to be washed. When Courfeyrac comes up behind him and presses a kiss into Marius’ shoulder, Marius, covered in dry sweat, whines, “I fear a need a bath.”

“Fear not, then,” Courfeyrac says with a grin, bringing his hands to Marius’ shoulders to massage them. “I will draw one for you.”

As he moves Marius to sit on the bed, Marius again pliant in his hands, he says, “Lie down, I’ll come back to you shortly.” He kisses Marius before he steps away, and Marius lies, dazed, across Courfeyrac’s bed, the sheets wrinkling under his naked skin.

Marius is close to sleep when Courfeyrac comes to him again, and with an arm around Marius’ shoulder and a hand on his stomach he leads Marius to the bath, wasting no opportunity to press himself flush against Marius (to which Marius does not object in the slightest).

Courfeyrac’s peeled his shirt off already and Marius leans into his bare chest, seeking not Courfeyrac’s body but the comfort of it.

Marius loses consciousness with his head tipped back against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, warm water up to his chest, Courfeyrac’s hands cleaning him purposefully, soothing his muscles soothingly and respectably.

When he wakes again he is curled up to Courfeyrac in bed, himself naked, Courfeyrac wearing a nightshirt. He wraps a thin sheet around his bare shoulders and nestles into Courfeyrac’s chest. Though the light of the sunrise peeks through the windows, he dozes off again quickly enough, lulled to sleep not only by the insistence of his tired body but by the peaceful flutter of Courfeyrac’s breath and the soothing radiance of his simple presence.


End file.
